Beginnings: Bruised [Rewritten]
by Riff Raff
Summary: A revised version of the second story in the Beginnings series.


BEGINNINGS - Story Two  
  
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Special thanks to Megan (MagentaKitty16@aol.com) for the inspiration and to my editor, Jamie, for all her help.  
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BRUISED - Riff's POV (Riff - age 16; Magenta - age 12)  
  
He came home one night with alcohol and fire on his breath, and I knew there would be trouble.  
  
Dad hadn't always been a drunk. He used to be an almost perfect father; he would take Magenta and I to the beautiful shores of Transsexual during the winter season, against Mum's protests that we would catch our death of a cold. We would build magnificent sand castles, bigger and more beautiful than the Queen's palace. Dad once brought us a heavy iron shovel that he'd found in our shed, and we built masterpieces with that shovel. Magenta would coax him onto the sand with her sweet smile, and we'd bury him up to his neck in it. He'd laugh and then push the sand away with his powerful arms. He'd lift Magenta into the air, swinging her around like a rag doll while she giggled and sang Transylvanian folk songs. Dad was always a man of enormous strength, accustomed to working in the fields. We never dreamed that he would use his strength against us.  
  
Things got bad at work. The Furters were demanding more and more from him and from our Mum. They wanted more hours of work and less pay. Dad already spent every moment at the Furter estate, and Mum was tired from all the housework she was forced to do. The tension was thick in our house, and Mum and Dad argued constantly. It got to be so stressful that Dad didn't want to come home on his days off. He went to a pub near our house and drank until he was numb. That's when the violence began.  
  
He went straight for me. To this day I don't know why, but I suppose it was because I never fought back. If he was angry at Master Furter for one reason or another, he'd scream my name -- among other things -- until the house shook. His bellowing voice echoed in our ears, and I had no choice but to answer. When I did, he'd march to me and grab me by the hair, yell and slap me. He never gave a reason for this aggression ... he just attacked.  
  
Usually he beat me when Mum was asleep, but sometimes Mum would wake up and see everything. She would make no sound; she'd just clasp her hands to her chest and weep silently until it was over. Sometimes I wished Dad would beat her instead, beat her for not caring what happened to her own son. Sometimes I wished I could beat her for it.  
  
Occassionally, Dad didn't come home at all. I rarely slept those nights, and if I did, my sleep was tainted with nightmares. Magenta would crawl into the top bunk with me and sob into my chest. She never said a word about the beatings, but I knew she felt the ache of every bruise on my body. One thought lingered constantly, keeping me calm: Thank God he's not hurting Magenta.  
  
I have never liked impulsiveness. I believe that every action should be carefully thought out, every motion premeditated. It is the only way to ensure success. However, sometimes emotion is too strong too fight, and one must act -- one must act before the unthinkable occurs. This is what happened to me on the first -- and last -- night my father ever raised his hand to Magenta's face.  
  
He was incredibly drunk that night, more so than I'd ever seen him. Magenta and I were awake in our room when we heard the front door slam shut. Magenta looked at me with fear in her eyes and grasped my hand in her frail fingers. It was only moments before his voice rang throughout the house: "Riff Raff!"  
  
She held my hand firmly. "Don't go," she pleaded.  
  
"I have to." I tried to gently pull away, but she was clinging to my arm with all her strength.  
  
We could hear his heavy footsteps shuffling up the stairs. With every step, he let out a loud grunt. I could almost smell his intoxication.  
  
I felt sick with fear. "Magenta, hide under the bed," I ordered.  
  
Magenta slipped away from me, but she didn't crawl under the bed. She stood in front of the door, hands firmly on her hips, tears streaming down her cheeks. "I'm going to stop him," she declared firmly. I didn't have time to stop her; Dad was at the door.  
  
He burst into the room and nearly fell over Magenta. His eyes were red and swollen, his hair dissheveled, and I realized with a start that he was holding an empty bottle of liquor in his hand. A weapon.  
  
He gaped at Magenta. "What are you doing, you little brat? Think you can be a big hero and disrespect your daddy?" He slurred his words and stumbled toward my sister, grabbing her roughly by the arm and shoving her against the wall. He swung the bottle, aiming for her head, but the glass hit the wall and broke in two. Magenta screamed as Dad hurled the halved bottle at her. This time it connected with her jaw, leaving a bloody trail on her pale skin. Sobbing loudly, she slid to the floor and hid her eyes.  
  
Dad's brow was glistening with sweat. "Get up," he hissed, his voice low. Magenta was shaking violently. She wouldn't look at him. He grabbed her by the arm and raised his fist to punch her.  
  
I stood at my full height and faced my father boldly. "Leave her alone," I said as coldly as I could manage, though inside I was burning.  
  
"Stay out of this, Riff," he growled. "It's time I taught your sister a lesson." His grip tightened on Magenta's arm, and when she cried out, he slammed her head into the wall. Her skull hit the hard wood with a sickening thud. Dad grimaced at her like some sort of hellish demon. He reared back his foot and kicked her squarely in the ribs. She yelped, her small frame crumpling beneath him. He lifted his foot again, ready to strike a blow to her stomach.  
  
The blood was pumping in my veins, so loud I couldn't hear anything but the pounding in my ears. I couldn't let him hurt Magenta ... I couldn't let him hurt Magenta ... My eyes darted crazily around the room, searching for something, anything to stop him. Finally, they came to rest on something metal. I didn't even know what it was, I simply grabbed it and held it over my head like a trophy.  
  
"I said ... leave ... her ... alone!" I growled. Dad turned his head towards me as if to yell, then his face twisted into an expression of horror as he watched the iron shovel swing straight for his head. In his drunken state, he had no chance of dodging my attack. He fell at the first blow, but I did not stop striking him. Again and again I raised that shovel above my head -- again and again I brought it down upon his skull. I heard nothing but the sounds of shattered bone and gushing blood. The floor was red, my hands were red ....   
  
And then, all of a sudden, I was calm again.  
  
I let the shovel drop from my hands. It clattered loudly to the floor, and I bent next to Magenta and took her head into my hands. She stared up at me with hazy eyes and I wondered if she was conscious enough to understand what I'd done. It didn't matter, as long as she was safe. I leaned close to her and kissed her mouth.  
  
We passed the night there, the three of us, lying on the floor of our blood-stained bedroom. I believe it was the first night in years that we slept so peacefully.  



End file.
